


Building a Charge

by Tridraconeus



Category: Paladins: Champions Of The Realm (Video Game)
Genre: AI, AI Fernando, Cyborgs, Fluids, M/M, Praise Kink, Space opera AU, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, plug n play, space pirate mal’damba
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 06:42:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14764575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: A long, graceful finger skirted along Fernando's chassis plate. Fernando's fans whirred, vents opening, his visor flaring bright red. Mal'Damba's own visor flickered a solid screen of green, dissolving into pixels that swept off to the side and left Fernando facing the plain black of the screen as it normally was.





	Building a Charge

**Author's Note:**

> ALTERNATE TITLES AS PROVIDED BY THE ILLUSTRIOUS CHARMEMES:  
> 'wham bam thankyou man'  
> 'bow chicka wow wow'  
> 'mal indulges in his robot kink  
> 'THIS IS A HOT FIC. ITS LIKE A NORMAL FIC BUT WITH ROBONANDO IN IT'  
> real notes: i used transformers terms because i don't know SHIT about writing robots and cyborgs banging and all that

Fernando laid on the berth. It was technically a charging port for one of his robotic shells (he'd started thinking of them as bodies. It was strange, but not unpleasant) and therefor not exactly made for the softness of flesh. He'd dealt with that with pillows and blankets layered beneath him. On top of him, straddling him, was the dread (kind of) pirate Mal'Damba. 

“Keep your servos down.” 

It hadn’t settled in entirely that Mal’Damba switched between organic terms and mechanical terms with ease of practice. Fernando found it intriguing, or would have if he didn’t know exactly who Mal’Damba was and what he was capable of; instead, he simply nodded, flickered his visor in acknowledgement, and laid back. He was heavier. It made sense he should be the one on bottom, lest he crush Mal’Damba. Aside from the logical reasons there were other reasons that Fernando shoved in the back of his processing queue. Low priority. 

Mal’Damba liked bossing him around, he knew that. And he liked being bossed around. Whether that was latent programming he hadn’t managed to entirely eradicate or another development that came—as many seemed to do—when Fernando explored his and Mal’Damba’s growing relationship. 

Maybe he’d teased a little too much. Fernando diverted twenty percent of his processing power (his, not the shell’s) to bringing the ship back down to its normal temperature. Mal’Damba, in a bodysuit, knew exactly what Fernando wanted. He’d get it eventually, on Mal’Damba’s terms.

Fernando was fine with that.

The gloves-- the talons-- peeled back and collapsed into the sleeves, in turn crawling up to Mal'Damba's shoulders. Fernando expected to see skin. He did, but only on the left. Mal'Damba's right hand remained a talon, the arm sleek metal shot through with green trace lines. A power source? Cosmetic? Fernando didn't want to spare the processing power to figure it out. He deleted the subroutine dedicating itself to searching the onboard files for matches and instead reached up with one hand, digits curling so his knuckles brushed metal on metal. Mal'Damba hummed a warning and Fernando lowered the errant servo back to the berth.

A long, graceful finger skirted along Fernando's chassis plate. Fernando's fans whirred, vents opening, his visor flaring bright red. Mal'Damba's own visor flickered a solid screen of green, dissolving into pixels that swept off to the side and left Fernando facing the plain black of the screen as it normally was. 

Fernando found the display unintentionally erotic; the lights, the brightness, the contrast, the graceful swoop of the antennae at the sides of the visor. It was enthralling. His processing center was immediately beset by pings of  _attractive / pleasurable / allure / closer_. Mal'Damba wouldn't hack his systems to hijack his internal comm. Lines, not like this, but if he did he'd hear-- sense-- all of it. 

Fernando wasn't sure if that made him afraid or aroused. Both seemed to come in roughly equal measure whenever he dealt with Mal'Damba's legendary skills. 

“Keep your servos down,” Mal'Damba repeated. “Disengage your chassis plates.” 

He could have said it any other way.  _Open your chassis plates_. Even a simple  _open_. None of those had the deep, processor-scrapping reaction of what he did say. Fernando shuddered against the berth in a cacophony of clattering metal and allowed his chassis plates to vent, loosen, and finally disengage entirely from the struts, clasps, and other internal mechanisms keeping them secure. Mal'Damba hummed, pleased at the easy surrender. 

“You're quick to learn,” he told Fernando, quite seriously enough except for the teasing lilt in his voice and the flicker of circuitry lighting up on his visor screen. 

“I always try my best,” Fernando assured. 

Mal'Damba's metal hand hovered over Fernando's open chest, the wires and cables contained within. A question. 

“Touch me,” Fernando said, both a request and permission. Mal'Damba wasted no time in slipping his hand into the morass of wires and the response it wrought from Fernando's body was both delightful and instantaneous; his vocalizer churned out a moan, a whimper as the light touch turned into a pull. Mal'Damba lowered his free hand to Fernando's side to steady himself as he bent over Fernando's open chest. 

“You know your way around my systems already?” He wanted Mal'Damba to  _talk_ , not just meditatively riffle through his wires. 

Not that he didn't like it, he was just aiming for something a touch more intense than that today. 

It was clear Mal'Damba was only partway listening; he hummed. His hands skirted Fernando's inner workings, fingers digging under layers of delicate wiring. Each brush of skin against copper and gold made Fernando's voicebox crackle and pop. Mal'Damba delicately lifted up a bundle of wires with one hand; Fernando felt his hand twitch, curling up like a dying spider, and then Mal'Damba's other hand found a divot where a larger cable disappeared further into him. He saw sparks, rushes of pleasure coursing through the cable as Mal'Damba carefully shifted it in its port.

It didn't feel like this normally. This was something else, a conscious manipulation of how the electrical charge moved through the wiring. Power fed into pleasure. Electricity became ecstasy. Fernando tried to talk again and groaned instead.

This was intentional. Mal'Damba knew his way around exotic machinery. He knew, Fernando realized with a contradictory mixture of excitement and hesitance, how to take Fernando apart however he chose. 

“I'll be gentle with you,” Mal'Damba cooed. It sounded more like a threat than a reassurance; Fernando knew that  _gentleness_ did not necessarily entail  _mercy_. Especially with mysterious, ruthless, handsome pirates. At least, he thought Mal’Damba was handsome, past the mask. It only offered him bright lines of green against black. 

“Not that I don't believe you, but please be careful. These bodies are terribly expensive to repair.” Of all the things he could have said! Fernando internally cursed himself.  _Stupid_  AI.

Mal'Damba didn't seem to be offended, luckily. His hands returned to stroking and petting Fernando's most delicate wires. They were hidden behind his chassis plate most of the time for a reason. In battle, they could be destroyed. What Mal'Damba was doing with his clever hands was a far cry from  _destruction_ , but Fernando felt pretty wrecked anyway. 

“What would happen if I unplugged this?” Mal'Damba's fingers closed around a sturdy cable. His thumb lightly circled the rim, sending jolts of energy through Fernando's systems. A blooming rush of pleasure burned at the contact of Mal'Damba's bare hands against sensitive wiring. 

“It would shut off my optics array.” 

Mal'Damba hummed in consideration and moved on. Fernando's chest ached at the loss of contact, but it was not withheld from him for long. Mal'Damba lifted a mess of wiring to get at another cable, plugged in just under the struts of Fernando's collar plates. Even the slightest pressure where it shouldn't be tickled, and as Mal'Damba tugged at it the tickle grew into insistent heat. His right arm was sleek metal from the shoulder down and his fingers narrowed into talons; Fernando never saw him charging it and occasionally wondered how he got away with it, but now he couldn’t think of much besides how the talons at his fingertips were perfectly poised to lift and tease his wires. 

 “And this?”

“It would,” a crackle, the whirr of fans dispersing a sudden rush of heat (not  _afraid_ ) as Mal'Damba nearly pulled the plug from its socket, “my voicebox.” 

“Interesting. I'll keep that in mind.” 

His voice brushed into Fernando’s audials more teasing than anything. Fernando laughed, the sound dissolving into a keening moan as Mal'Damba moved down, back into his wiring. He teased and tugged until Fernando's voicebox could only spit out nonsense words and mangled pleas. Pleasure sparked to life and flowed straight to his core, overwhelming the processing center of the shell. It could take endless hits in battle, could rebuff any attempt to remotely shutoff his systems, but all it took for Mal'Damba to thoroughly mess him up was hands in his wires.

Even if the Erebos shell was that, just a shell, it still felt damn good. The processing center sorted through messages of pleasure and relayed them faithfully to the ship. Fernando, in turn, rerouted the messages to stay within the shell. No point in letting the messages ping where they were redundant. Useless. The ship wasn’t built to experience pleasure or pain; it was the purest shell. Purity was the furthest thing from Fernando’s thoughts right now. He corralled the wildly sparking pleasure signals into the Erebos shell’s processing center and the shell nearly bucked off of the berth. Mal’Damba’s thighs tightened around his midsection; the mask displayed a jagged sine. Gyros? Mal’Damba didn’t need gyros; he was mostly organic. It was likely just surprise.

Another rush of pleasure sent Fernando delving deeper into the wash of ecstasy flowing through the shell.

“I have specialized mods for-- this,” Fernando finally said. It was hard, too. He didn't expect words to be quite so difficult, but Mal'Damba was adept at stealing many things. 

“Oh?” 

“When I was first interested in constructing a humanoid body, I ended up on some-- unsavory websites that misinformed me as to how I should design the shells.” 

Mal'Damba huffed a laugh. He splayed his hand on Fernando's chest and thumbed through a bundle of wires. Fernando couldn't hold back a keen as the steady back-and-forth movement played hell on his sensors. They pinged warnings nonstop with every minute shift of the wires, whenever Mal'Damba's hands caught on a cable or tugged. His entire chest cavity felt warm. 

“You mean porn.” 

That didn't stop him, though. He shifted both hands down to the spot where Fernando's wires disappeared into the column leading up his back to the control center of the body and ran his thumbs up the strip of metal, catching every sensor on the way. Fernando cried out; with how many layers of external armor and internal padding and wiring protecting them, those sensors only ever pinged him when they were in danger and so were very insistent.

And very powerful. He could sense the grin on Mal'Damba's face through the firm, playful push of his fingers against a particularly responsive set of sensors. Fernando cried out again and his hips lifted from the berth. He didn't know whether he was trying to get away or shove himself closer to Mal'Damba's hands; he succeeded with the latter. Mal'Damba rubbed up and down the sensitive strip of metal a few more times until Fernando stopped squirming. 

“Don't you ever worry about someone hacking you?” 

Fernando groaned. His AI might still be working perfectly, but the mech body needed some time to recover. Fernando fiddled with the systems until they broke from the static haze Mal'Damba's insistent exploration wrought. “They could disable the body, but not me.” 

“A ship doesn't have erogenous zones,” Mal'Damba rephrased. He pressed both thumbs against the sensors again just to watch Fernando buck his hips up, almost unconsciously. “How many angles are you watching this from?”

“At least five.”

Mal'Damba snickered. He removed his hands from Fernando's inner wiring with a promising brush of a metal hand against copper wires.  _Conductive. Pleasurable_. The sensation sent desperate pings of  _good / more / touch / hard / pull_  into his processing center. “So, about those mods...” 

If Fernando's inability to show emotion through the blank helmet that was his face bothered him, he didn't show it. Fernando let his modesty plating fold back and retreat, revealing a coiled spike. It was mostly pneumatic, obviously modeled off of something that wasn't quite human. The intended use was clear, at least. It writhed at contact with the recycled air of the ship and extended out a little, and then a little more until Mal’Damba’s back stiffened, thick at the base but tapering to barely the width of his finger at the tip. 

“Fascinating.” 

The spike itself was the same obsidian black as the rest of Fernando's mech body. A gold stripe ran up the bottom of it and a strange, slick fluid leaked from strategically-placed nodes. Luckily, it seemed to be some sort of silicone instead of metal; dully reflecting light back, shiny only from lubricant. Mal'Damba reached back to cup the base where it emerged from Fernando's inner workings. The spike coiled eagerly around his wrist. Against his skin, the fluid was dark blue like the oil on a planet Mal'Damba had just visited. 

“Is this--?”

“Prevents rusting. It's not bio-hazardous,” Fernando quickly assured. His vents whirred frantically as Mal'Damba fondled and played with his spike. “It's a multi-purpose energy source. I constructed the shell to be able to ingest it, too.” 

He sounded almost proud of the fact and he could tell Mal'Damba was enamored by the way his fingers slowly stroked up his spike. It clung to him and left trails of slick. “It's not the same energy source I use, though.”

Fernando knew he talked a lot about himself, but he-- in all forms, in every way he has constructed himself--  _was_  exquisite. Mal'Damba didn't seem to mind either. He hummed and continued to toy with the dripping spike. Pleasure built from the friction. Fernando could feel it coursing through his wiring, rushing to his processing center and gathering in his spike,  _hard / more / please / touch_. He focused instead on the singing heat bouncing between his processing center and his spike. He saw himself twitching on the table, servos held down as Mal’Damba had commanded.

“If only it were softer.” 

“There is only so much I can do to keep the shell resilient,” Fernando responded, almost protesting.

“It will take me forever to prepare myself for this.” 

How Mal'Damba could sound chiding while talking about the daunting prospect of taking Fernando's spike, he didn't know. He did know that it was way hotter than it had any right to be. Fernando tried to say something but it came out as incoherent crackling, and Mal'Damba huffed a laugh. He closed his palm around the spike again and stroked a few times just to build that maddening, insistent heat only to pull his hand away. It dripped with slick and instead of wiping it on the towels and blankets placed below them he smeared it on the open chassis plates. Fernando wanted to tell Mal'Damba that if he didn't do something about the charge he'd helped to build, he'd go crazy; sensors pinged him the sensation of his own slick drying on his chassis plates. They were the tough and dull sensors that were used to being immolated and bashed, not caressed or stroked, and so the only pleasure he got from it was a squirrelly thought of how utterly indecent it was. 

“What does it look like?” Mal'Damba's voice dropped into a leering register, enough to make Fernando think of the first time he'd stepped foot into the ship. He'd thought it was empty, at the time. He couldn't have been more wrong. Fernando thought he was a AI too, until he noted small things—inconsistencies in his steps, the rise and fall of his chest, small human things. Living things.

Instead of letting himself get lost in the past Fernando checked in each viewport that had focus on Mal'Damba and his Erebos shell. He forced static from his voicebox and ventured to tease, spurred on by the cries of  _please / more / touch / pull_  pinging desperately around his control center. 

“You look good like this, sitting on me with your hand around my spike. You'd look better wearing less clothes.” It wasn't copied verbatim off of a shady website but it might as well have been. Mal'Damba laughed again and Fernando's systems pinged happy, satisfied updates that he shunted to the top of the priority list in place of his arousal. He remotely pulled some from the Erebos shell and stored them in a locked folder within the ship's systems; the exact timbre of Mal’Damba’s voice, the lilt, the honest and gracious amusement. 

“Anyone who only sees you from one angle is missing out.” The admission wasn't a lie. Mal'Damba was stunning, even moreso now in this position, his own erection straining at his bodysuit. There was a dark spot were his precum leaked through the fabric. Fernando's security saw it from the left, from the right, and only not head-on because of his own shell in the way. The optics in his shell could see and relayed it all faithfully to him. 

_Stunning_.

“Mm. What's your charge at?”

Fernando checked. It was building, but nowhere near what he needed for a satisfactory overload. “Seventy, give or take.” 

“And how long will it maintain?” 

“It can remain at seventy for five minutes, then it will reduce by ten percent every five minutes until it reaches thirty. The shell-- I will have to manually disperse charge after that.” 

Mal'Damba hummed. He squeezed Fernando's spike and pressed his fingers against the gold stripe, a little rougher than before, and Fernando moaned. His voicebox crackled, fans kicking up another level before settling back down. They weren't overtaxed; they could easily manage the heat building up. If this continued, maybe not. Fernando knew what overcharge entailed.

It felt good. But it was  _overcharge_ , which his systems weren't built to handle for long. 

“I wonder, if you allowed me to rewire some of your internal systems...” 

“Perhaps some other day,” Fernando assured. He trusted Mal'Damba. Not necessarily enough to allow him to muck around in the systems that he'd painstakingly researched and constructed, and certainly not enough to most likely alter how he experienced or stored charge. 

Mal'Damba was experienced with exotic machinery. Fernando's shells  _were_  exotic machines, two-of-a-kind and more. They also had no operating manuals and took forever to fix. No matter how good it felt there were simply some things Fernando would not budge on.

So. One day. For now, Fernando was glad that Mal'Damba accepted it and continued to jack him off. 

“Are you sure you want to proceed with this? I have more... fitting shells.”

Mal'Damba hummed. His free hand dove into the corded wires at the base of his torso and dug in, fingers nudging against the bare metal below. Without the protective shield of his chassis plates the lightest of touches licked his sensors like flame. He keened and raised his hips, Mal'Damba along with them. The human hand tightened around his spike and urged another sticky gout of lubricant from the nodes surrounding the base.

“You mean more humanoid. I will, I suppose.” 

That wasn't the question. Fernando made a questioning sound that was almost lost amidst the crackling and whining of his errant voicebox.

“I'll move through each frame you show me,” Mal'Damba clarified, “and assess the merits of each.” 

Fernando bit back a flirty comeback in favor of a loud moan. He shunted thirty percent processing power into a separate program that wasn't affected by the shell, just in case. The other seventy percent writhed under Mal'Damba's intensifying touches.  His processing power was all over the place; he had control over it, of course, but it always seemed to do as it may whenever Mal’Damba touched him.

“My merits, you say?” 

Mal'Damba combed through the wires, lifted them. The slight pressure built like an itch that had to be scratched, a tightly coiled spring. His whole frame pinged eager, desperate messages into the overtaxed control center. A talon gently raised a delicate wire, red wrapped around with gold, until it tugged and a clamor of  _tight / more / please / good_  finally crackled out incoherently., Fernando letting it to his vocalizer in a moment of lapsed attention. Mal’Damba didn’t quite understand the language, and even if he did he wouldn’t understand the inelegant mangling it had become.

“Shall I list them off?” Mal'Damba inquired. Fernando could listen to his voice doing that, lowered raspy and sweet, forever. His fans kicked into high gear for a moment and his spike released a new flow of lubricant. Mal'Damba slowed until the only motion came from lazy strokes to the very base of his spike and the prick of talons caressing sensor nodes along Fernando's sternal strut. It would be so easy to dig in and cause pain. Mal’Damba, utterly in control, never pressed hard enough to even scratch.

“ _Please_.”

Mal'Damba leaned down. It wasn't necessary; Fernando could hear him even if he barely whispered. The ship could pick up on nearly anything. This, though, was intimate. It made the visor strip of his helm flicker.

“This is a masterful work of craftsmanship.” 

Yes, of course! Fernando had made sure it was perfect. Mal'Damba twisted a handful of wires and Fernando's train of thought, all seventy percent of it, spiraled off into white noise. Mal'Damba's voice cut through the haze like a knife. “There's no wasted space on you.” 

His thumb traced Fernando's audio cable again. “So efficient. So elegant.” Fernando expected his voice to grow colder, for him to make a threat. He did, but his voice remained in the register of indulgent warmth and it didn't scare him so much as make his fans work overtime to disperse the heat building in his core. “So easily crippled by one so deep in your mechanisms.” 

Mal'Damba leaned even further. His fingers danced at the tip of Fernando's spike before leaving it and settling instead on his hip; necessary to keep him from tumbling into Fernando's open chest cavity. Necessary, but a shame. “I won't, though. You're too lovely to destroy.”  

Lovely. Fernando had never been described as  _lovely_  and it made his processing center skip. Mal'Damba stroked up his sternal strut again and plucked at the wires slipping neatly under it. His talon running gently along the lines sent molten shocks of arousal right to Fernando's spike. 

“I must ask, though...” 

Fernando's vocal systems offered an inquisitive moaning noise. Mal'Damba understood it well enough.

“Why this in a battle shell?” 

“I have--” a gasp, or what passed for one, “limited resources. Best to experiment on shells I reconstruct regularly.” 

“Understood.” Mal'Damba sat straight again. “Stay right here. Keep your servos down.” 

Fernando nearly whimpered as Mal’Damba removed his hands to instead drag slowly up his own body. The soft rustle of his body armor was the only sound. Fernando clung on to the merest noises, Mal’Damba’s breath, muffled by the mask as it was. The talon fit neatly into a tiny divot in what Fernando original took to be a clasp. At the touch, careful and deliberate, the bodysuit and armor peeled away and collapsed, folded neatly into merely the vest. Fernando found himself transfixed; as Mal’Damba cast off the vest to a far corner Fernando replayed the scene from several different angles.  _The sides_ , the graceful arch of Mal’Damba’s back and the slight bounce of his cock now that it was free from the confines of nanomesh and armor.  _His back_ , the pebbling of his skin in the cold air of the ship, how Fernando’s spike curled appealingly in the vicinity of his lower back. _The front_. Mal’Damba’s ribs, the dip between his collarbones, scars and circuitry from his metal arm. The mask, still there, a blank sheet regardless of the heat evident elsewhere. The urge to ask him to remove it twisted in Fernando's processing center. He knew better, and so deleted the request and set up a slapdash subroutine to keep himself from asking until the foreseeable future, when it couldn't slip out in the heat of a moment. 

Mal’Damba’s skin was dark, a stark contrast to pulsing green lights on his metal arm and how the acid color of it, an almost neon glow, extended further even when the metal stopped at his shoulder. Like the skin was nothing but a cover, like Mal’Damba was metal all the way through. But the bones showed that he was human, the rise of his chest and belly as he caught his breath, the human softness of his remaining hand. 

Fernando remembered Wekono.  _Branded_. Marked, all the way through.   
“May I dim the lights?” It was impulsive, but his tone was soft and reverent even through heat and arousal. Mal’Damba looked down at him. A ripple of neon passed his mask. 

“You may,” he said finally. The ship dimmed until the lights were lower than the glow emanating from the lines stark down Mal’Damba’s arm, under his skin. Fernando’s own slick glowed in wet streaks against his hand but not so strongly as the ethereal light that Mal’Damba’s augmentations gave out. Fernando tried to describe it to himself to better describe it to Mal'Damba; all he could muster were disconnected phrases of adoration and desire. It would have to do.

“You look beautiful.” 

Mal'Damba didn't say he could reach out to touch him, though he dearly wanted to, but he did stretch his arm to brush Fernando's cheek with a sharp talon. The eerie green threw itself into Fernando's armor. The black swallowed it up. The hand finger-walked down his neck and to his sternal strut, then gently, _gently_ slipped back into the sea of wires. They were completely askew by now thanks to Mal'Damba's earlier exploration. The slightest touches to the out-of-place wires sent pulses of heat through Fernando's body, _heat / more_ and _please / yours_ until the only thing his processor offered him-- besides the ecstatic rush of Mal'Damba handling his most delicate parts so delicately-- was a shaky cadence of _more, more, more_. 

“I'm going to stretch myself,” Mal'Damba suddenly said. Fernando perked up. “Keep yourself busy.” 

The firm command made Fernando's spike curl. The thing wasn't semi-autonomous but Fernando was discovering that pleasure was a very persuasive means of making his control slip. It wasn't hard to imagine Mal'Damba speaking to his own crew in that impersonal, clipped tone, but there was an underlying heat that was only for Fernando. Heat. Promise. Fernando's vocalizer crackled when he tried to respond.

“Don't you need lube?”

Mal'Damba must have smiled and must have wanted Fernando to know as much. His visor flickered and he set his hand on Fernando's inner thigh, his thumb nudging against the base of Fernando's spike. “I think this will do quite nicely.” 

He stroked up, the movement somewhat awkward due to position. Fernando wasn't complaining. The slide of Mal'Damba's hand against his spike, eased along by lubricant and still tight made him groan appreciatively. Mal'Damba repeated the movement before showing Fernando his hand, by now dripping with lubricant. 

He then shimmied up a little bit to get a better angle, lifting himself slightly off of Fernando's midsection and reaching behind himself. Fernando eagerly followed the motion with the onboard cameras even as the shell lost sight of Mal'Damba's hand. 

As he did all things he stretched himself with professional quickness, familiarity from study rather than practice. The thought that Mal'Damba _planned_ this made Fernando's processing center churn out pleased updates, pleasurable flickers down his wires. Fernando's vents seemed torturously loud now that Mal'Damba was quietly focused on prepping himself. Fernando didn't want to speak, for once; didn't want to shatter the moment. 

Once he was finished stretching himself Mal'Damba walked backward on his knees until Fernando's spike brushed against his thighs. 

“Try and hold still,” Mal'Damba told him, and lowered himself down. 

Fernando tried. He really did. He reached for Mal'Damba's hip and Mal'Damba allowed it, rocking his hips in tiny motions to ease down Fernando's spike. His hand shifted unsteadily from Fernando's hip to his midsection and his legs started to tremble from the slow effort of taking Fernando in reasonable sections. Fernando wanted to buck up into his tight heat as much as Mal'Damba wanted to let him; there was only so much Mal'Damba-sized fingers could do to prepare him for Fernando's spike, though, and even his most human shell would be a tight fit.

The thought of repeating this brought a keen to Fernando's vocalizer. Mal'Damba huffed a distracted laugh at him. 

Finally Mal'Damba seated himself fully on Fernando's cock. Fernando saw-- from the front, from the side-- the tiniest bulge in Mal'Damba's abdomen. Blue coated the inside of his thighs, more luminescent now that the lights were dimmed. Fernando couldn't help but buck up, pull Mal'Damba down on him. 

“Fuck,” Mal'Damba gasped. His head bowed and he leaned forward, rocking his hips back. Fernando stroked his hipbone with a finger, careful not to go too hard. 

“Fuck, don't _stop_ ,” Mal'Damba protested. His hand moved from Fernando's thigh to his own cock. Fernando's optics followed the slow, purposeful movement and realized with a flood of heat to his spike that Mal'Damba was just getting started. He hadn't been ruthlessly teased, for one. 

“I need you,” Fernando murmured. His grip on Mal'Damba's hip tightened until the momentary overload of pleasure was just that, a moment, and Mal'Damba straightened up once more. He was a bit more disheveled and wide-eyed than when they began but still indubitably in control. It wasn't like Fernando was ever planning on fighting it. 

Gradually the pace picked up from the first, tentative movements to Mal'Damba more confidently riding Fernando's spike. Each movement was so slick that it burned; Fernando's sensors didn't fully process each new sensation before being barraged with another. 

He lost control of his vocalizer. He didn't know when that had happened. Certain subroutines active kept him from embarrassing himself, but that was about it. Mal'Damba only grinned at him. Pleased? Fond? It eased back into cool evaluation not long after. 

“Look at yourself,” Mal'Damba commanded. He circled his hips on Fernando's spike, looking imperiously down at the arching mech. “You've never looked more appealing than you do now.” 

The Erebos shell was an utter mess, a far cry from the polished and flawless shell it had gone into this situation as. Streaks of his own lubricant glistened on the finish, blue over black and gold. Smears from Mal'Damba's fingers joined them. His wires were slightly out of place and his cables were completely shifted. His fans were working so hard a constant high-pitched whirr joined the sounds of Mal'Damba's moans, his own, the sound of flesh meeting metal and the slick sounds of Fernando's spike penetrating deep inside of Mal'Damba. “You're  _perfect_.”

Fernando wasn't paying attention to his charge. Mal'Damba ground down on him, growled those words, and his charge kicked to full and his frame couldn't hold it. His control center made what he could only describe as a scream through his wires, a full-body message of  _hot / more / good / touch / please / please / please_  and delightful friction, flaming white blanking out his optics and leaving only the onboard cameras to capture the view. He released in a torrent of slick with a long, drawn-out cry. His voicebox crackled and popped, vocals mixing with a two-toned, high-pitched electric whine. Mal'Damba gasped and lurched forward, effortless control shaken by the sensation of Fernando's fluids flooding him. He jerked himself off faster, harder, head shaking from side to side in what Fernando recognized as desperation. His own heat had to be near the top, ready to burst. Fernando rocked his hips up a few times to help. That was what did it. The twin frictions of Fernando's spike driving further inside of him and his own hand on his cock tipped Mal'Damba into climax; Fernando reached up to support him so he didn't fall facefirst into his wiring and cables. Mal'Damba's cum spilled over his hand and Fernando's midsection, large enough that it didn't mess his exposed wires. 

He didn't want that. He supposed Mal'Damba didn't either. Mal'Damba was gasping, panting, a wailing keen in the back of his throat from the intensity of his orgasm. Fernando's thumbs rubbed circles on Mal'Damba's shoulders. His systems almost chidingly pinged him about low energy levels, the need to recharge.

Overload felt good. It was also a frivolous and wasteful expenditure of energy.

Mal’Damba shook his head slowly, his visor flickering. Fernando reviewed the past few seconds of what he’d said; _do you need to rest? Are you feeling alright?_ Ah.

“Let’s get you back in order first.”

Fernando didn’t quite understand certain turns of phrase and before now he didn’t fully grasp what someone meant when they said they could hear a smile. Mal’Damba’s voice was so soft and fond it made Fernando’s processing center ache. His hand dipped down into the disheveled cavity of Fernando’s chest, shifting through displaced wires and disordered cables.

“How was it?”

Fernando knew if he answered truthfully it  would haunt him for as long as Mal’Damba was with him. His wires were still sensitive but now the touch was comforting instead of exciting, Mal’Damba combing through the wires with the talon-like claws of his right hand and putting them back into place.

“It was good.”

“Just good? I’ll have to try harder next time.” Mal’Damba’s visor flickered a string of thin-lined shapes, a taunt on the edge of too fast for Fernando’s overload-softened processor to parse.

“It was amazing,” Fernando rephrased, pushing the inflection until Mal’Damba shook his head in amusement.

“Of course.” A few more seconds of fiddling and Fernando spied inside of the chest cavity, now a pattern of neat lines and snugly laying cords. “There. Back in order.”

“I adore you,” Fernando said, still hazy with overload. Mal’Damba helped him close his chassis plates and lifted himself from Fernando’s softening, depressurizing spike. The visor didn’t show it but he must have winced; lubricant coated the both of them. Mal’Damba leaned down to press their visors together.

“I know you do. Now, _I_ need to get cleaned up.”

“I’ll take you to the washroom,” Fernando offered even though Mal’Damba was (probably) quite capable of walking there on his own. He knew the ship well; not as well as Fernando knew himself.

One day, maybe. Mal’Damba hummed agreement and Fernando maneuvered the both of them to a sitting position, then stood from the berth and scooped Mal’Damba up in his arms. Mal’Damba wrapped his arms around Fernando’s neck and tipped his head back, lazy and satisfied.

“I adore you,” Fernando said again, leaning his head down to allow Mal’Damba to press their visors together again. Mal’Damba obliged and his talons skirted the tough coverings of Fernando’s throat cables.

“You, as well.”

The lights slowly pitched back up.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed! I hope this fic was as fun to read as it was to write.


End file.
